Chapter One #4
Though presently ashen, before Willard had interceded, Asquith hadn’t any inkling of what the mere sight of her could do to a man, likely because he held Millicent in sisterly affection.
If Asquith had realized her impact—by God—he never would have related to any male friend the story of how the minx had stolen his breeches and worn them to ride astride!
Neville closed his burning eyes.
The thought of Millicent in one of his own lawn shirts raced across his brain.
In his mind, the collar ties were undone, revealing ample hints of the body beneath.
Braces strained against her breasts. Breeches clung to her thighs.
Her hair flew wildly about her shoulders.
His spine went rigid. His head swam. Only when agonizing, unwelcome stirrings began, did he lift his lids.
He blinked. Had the Assembly rooms been this bright all night long?
This crowded?
“I should have heeded your warning,” Asquith said, his mouth tight with self-censure. “I believed that, if Millie were a danger to anyone, it would only be to you.”
To him? Were his sentiments so obvious, then? He cleared his throat. “What possible danger could she be to me?”
Asquith turned toward Blackwell and threw up his hands.
“Front row seats,” Blackwell whispered back to Asquith.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Neville demanded.
Blackwell shrugged. “I am only sorry you were prevented from putting your plan into immediate action. I was looking forward to watching the two of you take to the floor. Cutting in was terribly rude of Willard. Unless…” Blackwell’s voice trailed.
Then, his eyes lit. “Perhaps Willard’s interference will prove an unexpected blessing! ”
“Blessing?” Asquith repeated questioningly.
If Neville hadn’t been sure Asquith had never revealed to Blackwell the things Willard had done back in school, he was now.
“Willard. Millie.” Blackwell held up individual fingers and then crossed them together. “If anyone in the world is capable of sweeping Millie off her feet, it would be the Golden God of the Sporting Set!”
An internal, cold, downward whoosh left Neville pale. He exchanged an alarmed glance with Asquith.
Unaware, Blackwell continued, “Were Willard to offer for her hand, the wager, your obligation, and Asquith’s would all be moot.” Blackwell folded his arms. “Well, Neville? What do you think? Ties everything up quite nicely.”
Neville forced his expression to blank. Nothing was tied. Everything was unraveling!
Willard had grown into something far worse than the dormitory demon of a decade past. To name just one thing Neville had discovered in pursuit of clearing his brother’s name—Willard, under the guise of a corporation, owned a brothel here in London.
Which brothel, he wasn’t sure, but he knew Willard was more dangerous now than he had been then, especially to those of the fairer sex.
“He and Millie would not suit,” Neville replied coldly.
“And I would never give my permission for such a match,” Asquith added.
Blackwell shrugged. “Your funeral.”
Asquith turned his attention back to the dancing couple. “Willard would never truly pursue Millie. This dance is just a ballroom barb, a simple show to flaunt his power and his charm.” Asquith sounded as if he were attempting to convince himself.
“You may rely on me to watch out for her,” Neville replied. Lest Blackwell get too curious as to all the reasons why, he added, “Because of the pact I made with you both. A pact I intend to keep.”
Asquith nodded gravely.
Neville would protect Millicent Wainwright. Against herself. Against the man currently twirling her in his arms. And even against the secret, ever persistent, and clearly unwelcome craving for her Neville could not seem to purge.
Across the dance floor, Willard whispered something in Millicent’s ear.
She drew back, her expression modestly admonishing. But, as Willard continued to grin down at her, ever smiling his predatory smile, her lips began to quiver. She looked away. She almost lost her attempt to suppress an involuntary giggle, and Willard’s chest puffed in triumph.
Neville’s breath caught. Every muscle tensed in readiness.
She glanced in Neville’s direction. Their eyes momentarily locked. She reddened and looked away, and Neville’s stomach dropped. Willard had been mocking him to Millie, a clear attempt to gain her favor.
Yes, Willard’s intervention was an even greater menace than the simple man-to-man slight Neville had first considered. Whatever Willard’s purpose—a warning to Neville, a provocation to Asquith, a threat to Millicent—the stakes had just increased.
Neville sighed as Millicent dropped a pretty curtsey and Willard, a gentlemanly bow.
Neville could not yet prove Willard was the true criminal behind the false allegations against his brother. And unless he could, his brother, and quite possibly their whole family, would be ruined. And now Millicent had, without her knowledge, been drawn in, too.
Neville’s nightmare had just become even more hideously complicated. And Neville could only blame himself. But, no matter what the cost, for the second time in Neville’s life, he would end Willard’s heinous games.